The Island
by Fiorenza-a
Summary: Illya was moving through the underground corridors with a steely determination. His gun drawn, his senses on alert. He knew somewhere, deep in this complex was his partner.
1. Chapter 1

Illya was moving through the underground corridors with a steely determination. His gun drawn, his senses on alert. He knew somewhere, deep in this complex was his partner. He had not heard from the ever engaging agent for three days. No one had heard from him. Napoleon knew better than to go silent and yet he had remained silent for over seventy-two hours. A silence which had brought Illya from half a world away to find the man who was not talking.

Reaching an intersection, he halted before the corner. Wary of what he could not see, he listened intently for any movement, using his ears to tell him what his eyes could not. He could hear nothing to give him pause and so he continued on. The corridors all looked the same but he was not confused by the unending uniformity. He knew the route he needed to follow and was no less certain of his way back.

He was making for the heart of the complex. In the centre of this whitewashed labyrinth were holding cells. Stark unforgiving places where THRUSH imprisoned and tormented those who fell into its clutches. Illya was not unacquainted with cells like these. Napoleon too had seen his full share of them. You did not leave a friend in a place like this. You found him and you brought him into the light. As he would find you. This was what it meant to be partners. It was the knowledge that held you together when you were alone in a place like this. Knowing that whatever THRUSH did, whatever they threatened to do, someone was coming for you.

Illya followed the corridors with grim resolve until they brought him to the deserted cells. There were no guards. THRUSH did not expect intruders to get this far and the imprisoned were rarely in such rude health that escape seemed plausible to the demented minds in charge of such things. Minds which remained uncomprehending of what it meant to have a partner. A friend who would cross an ocean to find you. A man who would fight with the snarling ferocity of a tiger to reclaim what was held.

Methodically the son of the Soviets checked each cell in turn, finding each locked but none occupied. Undeterred, he continued searching until his patience was at last rewarded. Napoleon was crumpled in the far corner of his prison. Silent and unheeding. His dark head hanging down, his face obscured from view.

Illya put his hand in his pocket and drew out a small wrap of material. He knelt on one knee. He did not holster his gun; he left it on the floor, within lightening strike of his fingers. Then he deftly unfurled the wrap to reveal a set of lock picks. He needed both hands to manipulate the tools in the lock until it gave, opening for him. He put the lock picks back in their wrap and the wrap back in his pocket. Then he picked up the gun and pushed at the door.

It swung open and he slipped into the cell, creeping the few steps across it to crouch by Napoleon. Gently lifting his partner's head he said ''Napoleon, it's me. Illya. Are you still with us?''

The dark eyes looked at him blankly, trying to comprehend what they saw. The light and the nonchalant confidence entirely gone from them. Finally they struggled to realisation ''Illya?''

''Yes it's me. Can you walk?'' said Illya.

He studied every flicker and nuance of Napoleon's expression as the American struggled with this second question, until finally finding an answer ''I think so.''

''Good, that's good Napoleon, we're getting out of here and you will get help. This I swear my friend'' Illya vowed, ruthlessly quelling the cold swell of his anger. Napoleon was incapable of being this lost, surety was hard wired in the man. For the malevolence who had wrought this change there now awaited a profoundly Russian reckoning.

''Help?'' echoed Napoleon distantly.

Illya's eyes narrowed, the clever and darkly pragmatic brain behind them evaluating just how much the wreckage of his friend and partner could currently be relied upon. He trusted Napoleon without question, but just how much of Napoleon was there left to trust? ''Just follow me and do as I do'' he instructed.

Illya moved back out into the corridor, Napoleon followed as a shadow, matching Illya's stealth. Having Napoleon follow him, matching movement for movement, silent and watchful felt almost right, almost as it should be. Whatever they had done to the thinking man, the instinctual Napoleon was intact and undamaged, following Illya's lead as he had done countless times before. As Illya had followed his. Almost as if they were still a team. Napoleon stayed with him as Illya led the way back, threading his way through the corridors, retracing the convoluted path by which he had found the American.

They were half way to freedom when the alarm sounded. A raucous klaxon shredding the air with its fury. ''We have to get out of here. And quickly'' ordered Illya. He began to run. Speed would now serve them better than subtlety. Illya could hear the sound of heavy booted feet echoing down the corridors behind them. ''C'mon Napoleon. Move'' he urged his partner.

Napoleon's body was running but only to keep pace with him, it had no urgency of its own. Illya knew if the jackboots behind them caught him they would have Napoleon too, the American would simply stop when Illya was stopped. Doing as he did.

''Napoleon whatever they did to you, you have to keep fighting'' the Russian commanded as they raced through the corridors, his attention now divided between distancing themselves from their pursuers and ensuring Napoleon was still with him.

Illya had found his way into the subterranean maze by means of a forgotten access concealed within a disused well. Rusted iron rungs descending to an opening from which a narrow spiral of stairs led into the heart of the underground complex. It was his intention to exit the same way. He had practised his lock picking skills earlier that morning on the solidly panelled door between the bottom of the stairs and the corridors through which they were now racing for their lives.

Skidding to a halt, he barrelled through the unlocked door with Napoleon hard on his heels. Illya sprinted up the corkscrew of stairs until he reached the top, Napoleon barely a breath behind him. Then he began to climb up the rotting iron rungs set in the slime coated bricks. He could sense Napoleon behind him. He hauled himself over the lip of the well and turned to help Napoleon. He held out his hand as Napoleon neared the top of the iron rungs. Napoleon froze, staring at the hand as if it was a cobra poised to strike.

''Napoleon, we don't have time to waste'' he chastised. Napoleon didn't move. Illya could hear the boots of their pursuers echoing out into the well from the spiral staircase below. He drew back his hand. Napoleon hesitated, still uncertain, his dark eyes clouded by some unknowable battle raging within him. Then he seemed to regain something of himself and launched himself over the rim of the well. Illya grabbed him to steady him as he landed. Napoleon was trembling. Illya let go instantly, partly because he didn't want Napoleon to freeze on him again and partly because something in him was shaken by the fear still evident in his partner. ''I have a boat waiting'' he said evenly, betraying none of his unease.

This was Napoleon, whatever they had done to him, this was still Napoleon. This was still the one man he had come to trust completely, but he was no longer certain. The man who had his trust would not be trembling now and he wasn't sure how far he could trust the man who was trembling.

The sound of booted feet on the iron rungs made the matter academic and Illya took off in the direction of the waiting speedboat, Napoleon instantly with him, only a pace or two behind. They sped over the crumbling surface of the once well ordered harbour. THRUSH knew all the unloved places of the world. It hid itself away amongst the derelict and ruined.

Illya slid to a halt at the quayside sending a spray of fine gravel bouncing across the uneven ground. The speedboat was bobbing patiently a few feet below. He started down the stone steps leading to the water; Napoleon was inches behind him, waiting only enough time to allow him to clear the first few steps.

Abruptly the bitter rattle of a sub-machine gun assaulted his ears, he spun round just in time to see Napoleon fall. The broken and tormented American pitching into the gentle swell of the lapping waves, buoyed momentarily by the air trapped in his clothing, the water blossoming a gentle red around him.


	2. Chapter 2

Illya all but flung himself into the boat. Pulling the barely hitched mooring rope in after him. He started the engine and pulled away from the harbour wall, nudging close to Napoleon's floating carcass. He leaned over the side and grabbed the American's sodden jacket, heaving him half way into the boat with superhuman strength. The boat listed under the weight of the injured agent, but Illya pushed her for everything she had, heading out towards the open sea at a crazy speed, barely able to control her, one hand on the steering wheel, one hand hanging onto Napoleon with vice like determination. The rapidly receding THRUSH agents let off another volley of shots, ripping ferociously into the water behind them. The boat's erratic course proving impossible to target accurately.

As soon as they were out of range and he was persuaded that the pursuit had been abandoned Illya slowed the boat, letting it drift. Turning his full attention to what was left of his partner, he hefted the rest of the stricken American over the side and onto the deck. Napoleon was unconscious. Illya didn't know if he'd hit the water that way or given up the fight sometime after, but he was still breathing, his dark hair plastered to his uncharacteristically pale face. Napoleon had never looked less like himself. He was almost a stranger.

Illya ran his hands over him looking for the bullet holes and finding them below his knees. The bullets had ripped through the flesh but hadn't shattered the bone. The water made the blood loss look worse than it was, but it was bad enough. Illya pulled a small med kit from under the dash where he had stowed it. Then taking the scissors from the kit he snipped at the seams at the bottom of Napoleon's trousers, ripping them to the thigh. He packed and dressed the wounds on both legs. Napoleon didn't stir once under his ministrations. Illya's grim pragmatism had begun whispering to him that he was watching his partner take the first steps on a path which led out of life to whatever lay beyond. Illya closed his mind to such thoughts.

He pulled the body of his partner to the back of the boat and returned forward to take the wheel again. He was heading further out to sea, picking up speed as he went. He checked the compass. He knew where he was headed and was not about to be deflected from his course. He had not come all this way to fail. Napoleon needed help. He had sworn to get help. He was not a man who gave his word lightly and nor would he break it. The boat skipped over the sparkling waves leaving a wake of white foam behind it. Illya kept an eye on the heavens, that wake would be visible from the skies if anyone was looking.

It was about an hour before his destination became visible. A small white rocky outcrop of an island, home almost exclusively to goats and scrub. He turned the speedboat, slowing to follow the coastline, looking for a tiny inlet in the precipitous sun bleached crags. The late afternoon sun reflecting off the white rock and clear seas still had the power to dazzle and blind him. He raised a hand to shade his eyes and squinted with his less than perfect vision at every dark hollow until he saw what he was looking for. He moved the boat in closer, unaware of his body's need for relief from the sun until his skin responded to the cooling caress of the shade cast by the vertiginous rocks flanking either side of the narrow inlet.

He glanced over his shoulder to check on Napoleon. If the respite was a relief to him, how much more did the unconscious American need it? He cursed himself for not having thought of some way to protect the prone agent from the unrelenting effects of the sun. Napoleon would already be dehydrated from the loss of blood, adding the desiccating effects of the sun into the mix would not have helped him one little bit. He eased the boat forward, the water was deep but the inlet was narrow. He didn't want to risk hitting the sides. The boat bobbed unevenly as her wash ricocheted off the steep walls, making her harder to steer. He coaxed her further up the narrow inlet until he saw ahead of him the slew of shingle which constituted the island's only beach. He nudged the boat a little further forward and then allowed her to drift the last few feet into the shallows. He jumped out of the boat and grabbed her mooring rope, secured at the bow by a ring. He dragged her forward until she beached on the shingle.

He looked up the steeply inclined beach and began to toil his way up the shifting surface. The stones crunching beneath his feet. Once at the top he found and followed a rough pathway, making for a small whitewashed building. It was all curves and domes. Thick walled with few windows. As he neared it he spotted a man in a simple robe tending a patch of land that looked to be more weeds than agriculture. ''Father Demetrius'' he greeted the would be farmer.

''Illya!'' the man cried back in greeting ''what happy circumstance has brought you to my door again?''

Illya's face belied that assumption before the Russian had opened his mouth. ''My partner is injured, I'm on the run from THRUSH. It's a serious injury, he will need help.''

''And your own people?'' enquired the other man.

''I think it would be better if I had some time with him alone before I took him back'' said Illya cryptically.

''And so you brought him to my humble island?'' said the robed man ''As is only right, for why else do we have friends?'' He motioned for Illya to follow him and headed to a plot of land behind the whitewashed stub of a building. Tethered none too securely to a dead tree was a donkey. The man released the placid animal and began to lead it back to the rough trackway which Illya had taken from the beach ''Rosa is my only companion apart from the goats'' said the man amiably ''we have come to understand each other since she came to me. We did not choose each other but we have come to understand each other.'' He gave Illya an inscrutable look as he finished speaking.

Illya smiled ruefully ''You are a witch my friend'' he said.

The other man hissed through his remaining teeth at that ''The Church would never accept witchcraft.''

''The Church has not accepted you these many years'' returned Illya.

''And yet you still call me 'Father''' said the other man.

Illya lowered his head and said almost to himself, ''I do not know a kinder or a better man. I don't know why doctrine has estranged you from your Church. I only know that if goodness is to be found anywhere it is here.''

They toiled back down the shingle beach in companionable silence. The sometime priest helped Illya pull the little boat higher up out of the water and then they loaded the unconscious and uncomplaining American onto the donkey. Stomach first, head hanging down one side, feet the other. The island's only human inhabitant led his donkey back towards his humble home. Illya walked by the donkey, holding Napoleon in place, lest he should fall.


	3. Chapter 3

The erstwhile holy man looked up from re-examining Napoleon's wounds. The mid-morning sunlight shafted into the tiny bedroom. Illya was leaning, arms and ankles crossed, against the door frame. There wasn't really room for the both of them in the compact little room; so he was watching from the doorway, never taking his eyes from the American, frowning unconsciously with concentration. ''The wounds are not infected, which is good'' said the man Illya called Father Demetrius ''if not something of a miracle. Maybe all that salt water helped, but we can't leave him like this. He should be seen by a doctor, if you won't go to yours maybe you'll trust me to bring one here?'' Illya looked dubious. ''Illya, he needs more than I can do for him and you know that'' said Demetrius firmly.

''THRUSH is everywhere'' protested Illya.

''And so is God'' countered the other man. Illya winced a little at that. Demetrius continued unabashed ''I know you are concerned for your friend's safety, but you also know I can be trusted.''

''It's not you I doubt'' said Illya thinking of the stranger that Demetrius wanted to bring among them, but there was an unintended edge to his voice which was not lost on the other man.

''You doubt your friend?'' said Demetrius perceptively.

''I'm...I'm not sure'' said Illya, surprised into a confession he'd hardly made to himself. It didn't sound right out loud, of course he trusted Napoleon. ''I know I'm not inclined to trust a man I've never met, not with his life'' he said nodding towards their patient.

''There are men in these islands I have trusted with my life'' said Demetrius ''good men. Let me bring one of them here.''

Illya weighed the matter carefully, but there was no other conclusion. Demetrius was right, Napoleon needed professional attention, the wounds were too serious to do otherwise.

''All right then, but only someone you would trust with your life, because we will be trusting them with his'' said Illya gravely.

''And yours'' said the other man gently. Sometimes Illya needed reminding of the importance of this.

The priestly man got up and disappeared into another room, Illya hauling himself off the door frame to allow him to pass. Rather than settle himself back again he moved into the small room to sit with Napoleon. Napoleon was a better colour and, although its want of a comb was plainly evident, his hair had long since dried out. He looked more like Napoleon.

Illya half expected him to wake up and enquire after the local night life. He smiled a little at the thought of explaining to Napoleon that the night life consisted mainly of listening to the goats in the company of man who still thought of himself as a priest. And that Rosa was the best the island had to offer in the way of female companionship. This last turned a small smile into a broad grin. Demetrius was glad to see it upon his return.

''I have radioed a friend'' he said ''and asked for a doctor. They will send the old doctor, he can be trusted, the young man is very efficient but he wasn't here during the war, he isn't trusted like the old man.''

Illya nodded, his smile fading ''How long will it take him to get here?'' he asked.

''Maybe an hour'' said the other man ''hungry?''

Illya's smile made a brief reappearance ''Yes'' he said.

They had goat stew, mopping it up with the bread Demetrius made with varying degrees of success. ''I think sometimes I will be called to answer for the crimes I commit against the simple wholesomeness of this flour'' said Demetrius ''I know the grain is good, it can only be a lack in the baker.''

''It's fine if you let the stew soak in'' said Illya contentedly, washing the last mouthful down with a glass of spring water, the island's only mineral wealth.

''I sometimes envy you my friend'' said Demetrius, getting up to clear the table. He had just put the dishes in the sink when they heard the sound of someone on the rough path from the beach.

Illya instinctively rose and flattened himself against the wall near the kitchen door, bringing his hand up to the holster tucked against his chest, fingers on his gun. Demetrius took in the movement and turning from the sink, crossed to the doorway pausing just long enough to bring his own hand up to cover Illya's on his gun ''I do not think we will need that today'' he said, moving through the doorway and out into the small vestibule which led to his front door.

Stepping out into the light he was met by a tall, thin old man with wiry grey hair and bright intelligent eyes. The old man was carrying a battered, age worn black bag and was accompanied by a teenage boy.

''My grandson'' the old man explained ''he wants to be a fisherman like his father.''

''Thank you for coming'' said Demetrius to the old man, then smiling at the boy ''would you like to explore the island?''

The boy looked from his grandfather to Demetrius, his quick dark eyes comprehending that his grandfather's business was not his own ''I won't wander far, if I get back before you've finished I'll be over there'' he said pointing at a wizened tree clinging to the rocky edge of the island, offering the only visible shade. His grandfather nodded his approval and the boy headed off.

''This way'' said Demetrius leading the doctor into the shade of his unpretentious home. He led the doctor past the kitchen, Illya slipping in silently behind them, and to the small bedroom where Napoleon lay.

The doctor seemed unperturbed by the silent menace of Illya's presence behind him, hand on gun, standing in the doorway, blocking any escape. He lifted the covers to examine his patient. Demetrius assisting wordlessly beside him.

They have worked like this before, thought Illya and it comforted him. The priestly man would not have worked like this with anyone who was capable of working for THRUSH, but he kept his hand on his gun never the less.

The doctor opened his bag and began to take out the tools of his profession, Illya's eyes darkened. He had seen these same things laid out like this when the only intent had been to do harm. His fingers tightened involuntarily on his gun. Outside of the bright lights of a hospital he did not trust these instruments of pain and healing, sometimes even within those lights.

Without turning from Napoleon, Demetrius' preternatural instincts prompted him to say ''It's alright Illya, he's in good hands.''

The doctor removed the bandaging from Napoleon's legs and examined the wounds beneath. If he suspected or recognised their likely cause he said nothing. He glanced towards Napoleon's face ''Has he been conscious?'' he asked.

Illya hesitated a moment, Demetrius turned in his direction to give an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement. ''No'' said Illya.

''How long?'' requested the doctor.

Illya hesitated again, it felt like betrayal. Demetrius manoeuvred himself in the cramped space to be closer to him. ''The doctor needs to know, you know he needs to know'' he reassured the skittish Russian.

Illya glowered at Demetrius for a moment before bowing his head in acquiescence and saying ''Maybe twenty-four hours.''

The doctor nodded and began work stitching Napoleon's legs back together. The American remaining oblivious to the proceedings which had so entirely taken his partner's attention. Illya watching intently, scrutinising both the doctor and Napoleon. Silently absorbed in willing Napoleon to reclaim his stake in life. Demetrius was watching Illya. Sometimes the holy man thought, the Russian needed watching.


	4. Chapter 4

The doctor had finished his work. Under Illya's less than trustful gaze he had given Napoleon something against infection. Then he had repacked his bag and ensured his patient was comfortable before heading for the kitchen to wash his hands. Demetrius had followed him to the sink in order to thank the doctor and see him safely into the care of his waiting grandson.

''If he's not awake by tomorrow you should consider hospital'' said the doctor.

''Illya won't hear of it'' said Demetrius.

''Why? What could he have to fear?'' queried the doctor.

''He has his reasons'' said Demetrius ''there is still wickedness abroad in the world and he has seen his share of it.''

''And so it would seem has the man I just treated. I know bullet wounds when I see them old friend'' replied the doctor.

''They are good men fighting a true evil'' returned Demetrius ''the world has need of the work they do.''

The doctor smiled at his old friend. He knew nothing of the mysterious strangers but he trusted the man who had once been a priest in these islands beyond all doubting. If this man vouched for the foreigners, then he would accept what he was told of them without question.

The cries of the doctor's grandson broke in on their conversation. Looking out of the small kitchen widow they could see him running towards them shouting something about a boat and pointing urgently behind him to the wizened tree under which he had promised to wait for his grandfather.

Demetrius hurried out to meet him, Illya appearing from nowhere to be almost instantly on his heels. The doctor finished drying his hands and followed them out. He had lived too long and seen too much to be easily unnerved. Demetrius grabbed the boy by the shoulders ''What exactly did you see?'' he demanded. Illya stood in silence, letting Demetrius do the talking.

''Two boats'' panted the boy, breathless more from excitement than exertion ''the men have guns, I'm sure of it'' then turning to his grandfather ''What are they looking for? Is it us?''

''It will not be us'' said his grandfather calmly. Turning to look directly at both Illya and Demetrius, the old man asked ''is this what you were afraid of?''

Demetrius glanced at Illya, standing grim faced beside him, before confirming ''Something like this.''

''I see, well whatever it is we do now,'' said the doctor, motioning with his head in the direction of Demetrius' home, ''that man is in no condition to move.''

Illya raised a hand to his gun and started towards the trackway leading to the beach. Demetrius caught him by the arm, halting him in his steps ''Illya the boy said two boats, it's too many for you to face alone.''

''I've faced worse odds'' said Illya automatically, squinting in the sunlight out towards the scintillating blue waters beyond the island. He couldn't see the boats, they must be close to the shore. It would only be a matter of time before they spotted the inlet. ''And I have the advantage of the terrain, the only way onto the island is by the beach. I can pick them off as they try to land.''

''It's too dangerous'' said Demetrius.

Illya dipped his head for a second and with an oddly diffident smile said ''It always is.'' Then he freed himself from Demetrius' grasp and headed towards the beach. Demetrius watched him go, wishing there was something he could do for the man walking with such certain assurance towards such an uncertain fate.

But Illya was not the only one who might not survive an encounter with THRUSH, there were other lives at stake. Turning to his old friend Demetrius said ''You and the boy should probably make for the far side of the island.''

''And what will you do old friend?'' said the doctor.

''I will wait with the American for Illya to come back'' said Demetrius.

''You think he will come back?'' asked the doctor.

''He can be remarkably stubborn'' replied Demetrius.

The old man pondered this for a moment and upon reflection decided that from what little he had seen of Demetrius' house guest this was not unlikely to be true. Maybe he would see the serious young man again. Then, much to the boy's disappointment, he gestured for his grandson to follow him and headed off for the far side of the island.

Illya, in the meanwhile, had reached the beach. His own and the doctor's were the only boats visible. He moved across the shingle, gun in hand, making for one of the craggy walls by which the small sloping beach was encompassed. With one hand on the rock face to steady himself, he slid down the steep pebbly incline until he was almost at the water. He tucked himself against the rocky wall and waited. There was no cover, surprise would provide him with a little protection, but after that he anticipated things would get, as Napoleon would say, 'a little interesting'.

It was ten maybe fifteen minutes before he heard the sound of an engine reverberating between the steep rocky walls of the inlet. He steadied himself against the rock behind him, not wanting the shifting pebbles beneath his feet to destroy his aim. As the boat came into view he raised his gun. One of the idiots was standing, one foot on the gunnels, the webbing of his gun wrapped about his arm, the weapon pointed downwards at no particular target, issuing orders.

Illya took careful aim and shot him. He pitched forward into the water, floating lifelessly just beneath the surface. His companions began firing indiscriminately in almost every direction but Illya's. Almost too easy, thought Illya as he bagged another couple of the idiots. This left two in the boat. They were back to back scanning warily for their assailant, as Illya took aim again. One of them spotted him, firing almost simultaneously with his own shot, the volley of automatic fire kicking up shingle and ricocheting off the rock face inches from his arm. But his shot was the better aimed and the other man dropped to the deck.

His companion whirled and fired just as the second boat came into view. Illya was engulfed in a hail of bullets from both boats but remained miraculously undamaged. He flung himself on his stomach and shot back hitting one of the men in the second boat. He could hear the man swearing, distracting his companions. Illya took instant advantage of this and dropped another of the gunmen. They fired back angrily, ripping into the rock inches above him. He fired again, hitting another of them. His stomach tensed in expectation of the reply, but they didn't shoot. Instead the remaining men jumped into the water and started wading in Illya's direction.

Illya shot again but missed, the returning volley of fire tore into the shingle barely a hands span from his flank. He rolled back against the rock face and fired again, downing another of them. A hail of gunfire followed and something exploded in his head, he steadied his gun and fired one last time before the darkness descended.


	5. Chapter 5

He awoke with a splitting headache, the sunlight in his eyes lancing through his brain leaving fire in its wake. He suddenly felt very sick. He shut his eyes swallowing hard against the nausea. Instantly he felt something wonderfully cool against his forehead. He breathed hard for a couple of minutes fighting his rebellious stomach and then, as he began to win the battle, opened his eyes again. The pounding in his head was making it hard to concentrate. He tried to sit up, but his head screeched in defiance. So he lay back and let it have its way.

His eyes began to pick out details from the haze of yellow light shining into them. There was a large shapeless smudge hovering over him, it seemed to be moving and as it did he could feel the wonderfully cooling something at his forehead being refreshed and renewed. ''Thank you'' he whispered to the smudge, fearing his head would tolerate nothing louder.

''You are a lucky man Illya Kuryakin'' said the smudge ''you should be dead.''

''Many times over'' admitted Illya, still daring nothing more than a whisper.

''Can you sit?'' asked the smudge.

''I don't think so'' whispered Illya, his head was threatening mayhem at even the thought. The smudge made a waving gesture and Illya could feel hands tugging and pulling at him. He shut his eyes again, the nausea was back and his brain felt as if shards of glass were tearing through it in an effort to exit through his optic nerves. Dimly he became aware of being lifted and he felt a sudden surge of panic at having nothing solid beneath him. He reached out to grab something to stop himself from falling, but his hands were caught and held with gentle force against his chest.

''It's alright Illya, we have you'' said a voice, possibly the smudge, he couldn't tell, but it sounded as if he should listen to it, so he did.

He thought about opening his eyes again, some part of his brain was curious about where they were taking him, but the majority vote was in favour of keeping them shut. He couldn't muster a strong feeling about it one way or another so he went with leaving them closed. He was so tired; if he could just sleep he was sure he could work it all out when he woke up. It was the last thing he remembered thinking before he did wake up.

He woke up in the dark, his room was dark except for a little candle throwing off a gentle incandescence. As a candle it didn't appear very efficient, seemingly creating more shadow than light, but it was cheerful in its own little way and he had woken up to far less inoffensive things. He sat up slowly, waiting for his head to protest, but apart from a residual low drumming, it seemed to be behaving itself. He tried to stand up. It took some effort, his balance appeared to be a little off, but once he was upright things seemed to settle down. He reached for his gun, but both it and the holster were missing from their customary home against his chest.

He peered round the impossibly cramped confines of his room, the gun was in its holster hanging from the headboard of his bed. He hooked it off and shrugged into it and then looked round for his shoes. He found them tucked neatly under the bed. He sat on the bed to put them on, fearing his balance might not otherwise be up to tying the laces. Then he wandered out of his room in search of Demetrius.

He found the object of his quest sitting outside in the late evening stillness; drink in hand, contemplating whatever men of God contemplated at such times. The chirping insect life and the odd bleating of a goat the only distraction to the holy man's thoughts. ''Good evening'' he said helping himself to one of the ramshackle affairs the erstwhile priest passed off as chairs.

''Illya. How are you feeling?'' said the Godly man.

''Better'' said Illya ''how's Napoleon?''

''Better'' returned his companion.

''Awake?'' asked Illya.

''Not yet'' said Demetrius ''but I think it's just a matter of time now, he's sleeping much more naturally.''

''Good'' said Illya reaching for the bottle and helping himself to one of the earthenware beakers that accompanied it. He poured himself a reasonable drink and sat back to enjoy it, stretching his legs out before him. He contemplated the tips of his shoes for a few moments and then, without lifting his gaze, he asked ''What happened?''

''You know you got one of them with that last shot'' said Demetrius. Illya said nothing, gazing at his toes, waiting to find out why he wasn't dead. ''I could hear the shooting from up here, the doctor says he could hear it further away than that. I suppose the acoustics work that way down there. I once heard Rosa from right across the island when she slipped on the shingle and all but broke her leg.'' Illya sipped his drink and listened. ''The boy was over excited by it all and wanted to come back. The doctor says there was no holding him, he came tearing back here and it was all I could do to stop him running after you.'' Illya said nothing, he was accustomed to listening. ''Then Rosa got loose, all the noise must have frightened her, she's not used to it anymore. We live very quietly here, she and I. Then I think she must have panicked because she bolted towards the beach, not away from it. The boy ran after her and I ran after the boy. The whole pandemonium arrived at the beach just as you fired your last shot, there were only two of them left by then. I think with all the noise and commotion Rosa was making they mistook us for reinforcements. They clambered into one of the boats and left in some haste. The doctor says he saw them heading out into the open sea as he came across the island to catch up with us.''

Illya smiled quietly to himself ''I can just imagine what Napoleon will say when he hears I have partnered myself with a donkey.''

Demetrius considered the Russian for a long moment and then with gentle gravity he said ''I thought you were dead.''

''I thought I was dead myself'' replied Illya philosophically.

''Is this the life you choose for yourself?'' asked Demetrius.

''I'm not sure I chose it'' said Illya ''but it is my life.''

Demetrius nodded in understanding, in this respect the path of his own life was not so dissimilar, ''And your friend, is it the same with him?''

Illya nodded ''Napoleon believes in what we do.''

''But now you have your doubts?'' asked Demetrius.

Illya raised his eyes from his feet to look at Demetrius ''Not about Napoleon, not about the man I know, but the men who came here today had him for three days. I got him out, but it concerns me that this time I may have been too late.''

''You think he won't be able to go on with this work that you do?'' asked Demetrius.

''I'm not sure'' said Illya ''and if he can't, I'm not sure I can.''

''And now I know why you came here, you think this place will heal him'' said Demetrius.

''Am I wrong?'' asked Illya.

''Perhaps it is a place of miracles'' said Demetrius ''I very much feared that it would be your dead body that we carried off the beach. It seemed impossible that it could be otherwise. It was a blessing in which I still rejoice to find you alive. I thought they had shot you in that very Russian head of yours, but the doctor says he thinks you were hit by a stone thrown up by the bullets. Yes, you are a lucky man Illya Kuryakin.''

''Some would argue that being repeatedly shot at, bludgeoned and otherwise mistreated is a poor sort of lucky'' said Illya with a wry smile.

Demetrius smiled back ''I would venture to suggest that such people are not Russian, my friend.''

Illya's smile broadened for a moment, then died away as he said ''They could be back, you know. They could come looking again.''

''They may'' said Demetrius ''but the doctor and I loaded the bodies into the boat they left behind. The boy towed them back to the main island. They will tell the police that they found them drifting like that. The police will think it's smuggling, the navy will step up the patrols. It will make it very much harder for them to cross into our waters unseen. I think you may count on a little peace while you try and heal your friend.''


	6. Chapter 6

Illya was still dressing when Demetrius called him. Tie-less and with cuffs and collar undone he headed for Napoleon's room. The American was blinking confusedly in the warm sunshine streaming through the tiny window to his room.

''Hello sleeping beauty'' said Illya cheerily. The warm sunshine, Napoleon's wakefulness and the unlikely fact of finding himself still alive, conspiring to make him uncharacteristically chipper.

Napoleon swung dazed eyes in his direction and smiled broadly ''Only you would put on your gun before you'd finished buttoning your shirt'' he said ''where am I?''

''Land of the goats'' said Illya ''I think you're going to love it here.''

Napoleon looked more confused than he had before ''Land of the where?'' he queried.

''My poor island is nameless'' said Demetrius ''being too small to trouble anyone to give it a name, but you are welcome here for as long as you wish to stay.''

''Thank you'' said Napoleon struggling to sit up, ''but we can't stay we have to get back to...our office is expecting us'' he corrected himself somewhat lamely.

''I'm sure U.N.C.L.E. can manage without you while you recover'' said Demetrius ''I'll get you something to eat. You and Illya must have many things to talk about'' he leaned a hand on Illya's shoulder as he was leaving, peering intently into the Russian's eyes ''good, good my young friend,'' he said ''no sign of concussion there'' and headed to the kitchen, leaving Napoleon somewhat dumbfounded behind him.

''Concussion?'' he asked.

''A bit of a run in with THRUSH, they shouldn't be back to trouble us for a little while yet'' said Illya.

''I meant what I said'' said Napoleon ''we need to get back.'' He tried to swing his legs out of the bed, gasping at the sudden pain, the colour draining from his complexion. He fell back on the pillows, a thin sheen of perspiration on his face. The energy gone from him.

''Father Demetrius'' called Illya urgently, the edge in the Russian's voice summoning the Godly man almost instantly.

Demetrius took one look at Napoleon and disappeared almost as quickly, returning bare moments later with a bottle of pills and a glass of water. ''Take these'' he commanded ''they will help.''

Napoleon's hand had a tremor to it as he took the glass, gulping the pills without question and washing them down with the water ''Thank you'' he gasped, closing his eyes.

Illya's eyes were darting backwards and forwards between Napoleon and Demetrius. ''What did you give him?'' the Russian demanded.

''Painkillers'' said Demetrius ''he hasn't needed them up to now, the doctor left them for when he did.''

''When did he do that?'' asked Illya, his voice frosted with suspicion. He had watched the doctor like a hawk, he hadn't witnessed the doctor leave any medication.

''You will remember we were somewhat interrupted. By the time the doctor and I were in a position to talk of such matters you were lying in there lucky to be alive'' said Demetrius nodding pointedly in the direction of Illya's impossibly tiny bedroom.

Illya glanced back at the room himself, a new suspicion occurring to him ''Did the doctor give me anything?'' he asked darkly.

''Illya, the doctor simply made sure you were comfortable and left me some instructions regarding your care'' said Demetrius with thinly veiled exasperation ''the doctor is a good man. There are men, women too, living in these islands today who would not be alive if it was not for the courage of that man.''

Some of the tension went out of Illya and he returned his attention to Napoleon ''Are you still with us?'' he asked.

Napoleon's eyes struggled open ''What hit me?'' he said weakly, giving Illya a wan smile.

''You had your legs shot out from under you, you've been out for two days'' said Illya.

This news seemed to take a while to percolate through to the thinking part of Napoleon Solo ''My legs?'' he said, his eyebrows drawing together in sudden concern.

''Don't worry'' said Illya ''your dancing days aren't over, a little physio and you should make a full recovery, although I should think the scars will be impressive.''

''All the nice girls love a scar'' said Napoleon dreamily.

''Well you will have plenty to go round'' said Illya watching him with concern.

''And round and round'' said Napoleon incoherently.

Illya looked up at Demetrius, his face speaking more volubly of his worry and uncertainty than any question he could voice.

Demetrius put a hand on his shoulder and said ''They are very powerful painkillers, I think we should let him sleep now.'' Illya hesitated, casting doubtful eyes back to rest on Napoleon, seeking comfort that Napoleon was indeed only sleeping and that he could be safely left so to do.

Napoleon's breathing had become gentle and even, the tightness of the pain had left his eyes, the dark lashes closing on a face given over solely to peace. Illya stayed a moment or two longer, in order to be sure and then he allowed Demetrius to guide him away.

''Food I think'' said Demetrius and led Illya to the kitchen.

They were all but finished with their meal and were talking amiably over some of the oil dark coffee so favoured by the locals when they heard an indistinct noise coming from the direction of Napoleon's room. Illya was on his feet, gun drawn before Demetrius even had time to react. The Russian was at Napoleon's door within seconds. Demetrius arriving not long after, his humble abode being too small for any one room to be distant from another.

Even so Illya was already at Napoleon's side, cradling the shaking agent in his arms. His gun abandoned on the tiny bedside table. Napoleon was trembling in what seemed to be terror. Wide eyed at some unseen horror. Illya looked up in desperation as Demetrius entered the little bedroom ''This is what they did to him, this is what I have to undo before he can go back'' said Illya.

''Won't your own people have doctors for this?'' asked Demetrius in bewilderment.

''I don't want anyone else to see him like this'' said Illya, dropping his head, brows knitting in concern. ''He wouldn't want it.'' It sounded more like a promise than an explanation.

''He is lucky to have you for a friend'' said Demetrius.

''I'm his partner'' said Illya without raising his head. He shifted on the bed so that he could ease Napoleon back against the pillows. The dark haired agent still transfixed by whatever demons possessed him. Illya reached a hand up to his forehead, Napoleon shrank back wild eyed. Illya withdrew the hand instantly ''That happened when we were escaping'' he said flatly ''I don't know if it's just me or whether he would react that way with anyone.''

''Let me'' said Demetrius. Illya manoeuvred himself off the bed and round the cramped confines of the little room so that Demetrius could take his place. Demetrius sat by Napoleon and raised a hand over his head. Napoleon followed the movement nervously but it didn't seem to elicit the terror that Illya's had. Then the sometime priest brought his hand gently against Napoleon's forehead. Napoleon was breathing in short little gasps, obviously fearful but not overcome by it. Standing, Demetrius motioned for Illya to follow and left the room. Illya retrieved his gun before joining him, glancing back at Napoleon. The American's breathing was beginning to slow to a more steady rhythm and his eyes were beginning to close.

''Fever?'' asked Illya, having been unable to ascertain it for himself.

''His temperature's up a little'' said Demetrius ''but no, I don't think we need be concerned. But he does seem terrified of you my friend.''

''But we escaped together'' said Illya ''he followed me when I asked. And he was fine with me this morning, there has to be more to it than that.'' Illya raised his hands and turned them round and back, studying them as if they were new and exotic. ''I think it's my hands, it's something about my hands'' he said.


	7. Chapter 7

Napoleon's legs were a little better and with the aid of the painkillers, and with Demetrius and Illya to help him, he had managed to find his way outside Demetrius' little home to sit on one of the holy man's ramshackle chairs and take the air. Demetrius smiling on as Illya fussed over his patient's needs.

Heading back into the house Illya called back to Napoleon ''I'll fetch a blanket, you'll need something to cover those legs.''

Demetrius sank into another of his derelict chairs close by Napoleon and said ''He's worried about you, you know.''

''He's Russian, he's not happy unless he's worrying'' said Napoleon ''besides the legs are healing. For which I understand I have to thank you and your friends'' then he added with a rare and sincere guilelessness ''It's not a debt I'll forget.''

''It's not your legs that worry him'' said Demetrius carefully. He cold see the muscles beginning to work in Napoleon's jaw as he spoke, but the matter could not be left unbroached any longer. ''Do you remember anything of your time with THRUSH?''

Napoleon said nothing, staring fixedly at the ground until a shadow fell across him and he looked up to see Illya with a blanket tucked over his folded arms, the sun behind him, his face unreadable ''Well do you Napoleon?'' he asked quietly.

Napoleon looked away, the sun was blinding him and his memories were too fractured to have an answer for Illya's question. He leaned back in his chair, hearing it creak and settle round him. Illya shook the blanket and reached forward to put it over him and then his mind imploded.

There were screaming shells and explosions, he could hear machine gun fire and the heavy drone of bombers overhead. The air was full of choking smoke and someone was shouting his name. They kept shouting it and he was being shaken by something, an explosion? No, he'd felt his fair share of those, an earthquake? Were there tremors? No that wasn't it either. Something was shaking him and shouting his name and the world was being blown apart around him. He was in hell, yes that must be it, he must have died and gone to hell.

Then there was another sound, another voice. Calm, warm, calling his name, calling him away from the terror and tumult, asking him to wake up. Was he asleep? Did he need to wake up? Perhaps then, if he opened his eyes. ''Illya, it's alright. He's alright'' the warm voice said. His eyes were open, but it was difficult to make any sense of the world. It seemed out of focus somehow, then slowly drifting out of the fogginess came a face. The face had a name, Father something, that's what Illya called the face, Father something. Illya? Where was Illya?

Napoleon sat up gasping ''Illya? Illya? Are you alright?''

''I'm here, I'm fine'' said Illya immediately. He was on one knee, kneeling by Napoleon's chair, his hand on Napoleon's arm. Napoleon didn't think he'd ever seen him looking so worried.

''That's not the way you look'' he said ''what happened?''

''You have been having...'' Illya searched for a word Napoleon was likely to accept and settled on ''blackouts.''

''Blackouts?'' repeated Napoleon ''I don't remember, wouldn't I remember?'' he looked up confusedly at Demetrius standing over him.

''Not necessarily my boy'' said Demetrius as if it was nothing he should concern himself about. ''Do you remember this one?''

''I remember Illya with the blanket'' Napoleon started, then his stomach lurched and he felt as if someone had stuffed his lungs with cotton wool, he was gasping for breath, fighting the panic of asphyxiation.

''It's alright my boy, calm now, breathe with me, breathe, in and out, in and out'' intoned Demetrius as Napoleon fought for breath.

Gradually, as he followed the rhythm of Demetrius' voice, the cotton cleared from his lungs and he was able to breathe freely again. ''What's happening to me?'' he asked. The fight had taken its toll and he could feel exhaustion creeping up on him.

''I think THRUSH conditioned you somehow'' said Illya ''I have a suspicion that the trigger is my hands.''

Napoleon looked down at the Russian's hands, now both resting on the arm of his rickety chair, Illya still on one knee beside him. ''Well I never did think much of your manicure'' he said with a wry smile. It had the desired effect, Illya relaxing visibly and rising to his feet. There was even the hint of a smile on the Russian's lips.

''I doubt their intention was to raise the standards of personal grooming'' he said.

''What do you think they intended my friend?'' asked Demetrius.

''I think this is one more attempt to undermine the effectiveness of the New York office. They want to destroy our effectiveness as a team. I suspect using Napoleon is someone's idea of icing on the cake'' said Illya.

''Not that I'm complaining Illya, but I can see your hands now and I appear to be fine'' said Napoleon.

''Yes I know'' said Illya ''I didn't have an answer for that myself.''

''But you do now?'' asked Napoleon.

''I think so'' said Illya ''it seems to be about how I move them. You only seem to react if I'm reaching for you, as I did at the well.''

''Well?'' repeated Napoleon.

Illya glanced at Demetrius, the concern back in his eyes ''Yes, we escaped through a well, we climbed up it, I turned to help you, you don't remember any of that?''

''No'' said Napoleon.

''So what do you remember?'' asked Illya.

Napoleon frowned hard, his concentration wavering as his energy began to fail him. ''I remember heading to the office, I think I remember heading to the office, I was on the street certainly, walking. I was walking, why was I walking? I don't know, I can't remember, I just remember stopping to speak to a redhead, she wanted some directions, she had a map, she asked me to look at the map'' Napoleon looked up ''I don't remember anything after the map'' he said.

''What's the next thing you remember?'' asked Illya.

''Demetrius. You. You with your cuffs unbuttoned and your gun on. Just how long have you been getting dressed like that?'' enquired Napoleon.

''It has proven convenient'' said Illya dismissively in a peculiarly Russian cocktail of ire and concern ''you don't remember me finding you or getting shot?''

''Can't say I'm so worried about not remembering getting shot'' said Napoleon.

''Nothing at all between the map and here?'' pressed Illya.

''Nope'' said Napoleon, then his brows furrowed ''at least...''

''Yes'' prompted Illya.

''Lights'' said Napoleon ''I think I remember lights, bright, dazzling lights, I couldn't shut my eyes. And someone talking, they kept talking all the time, saying...saying...'' unconsciously he shook his head in an effort to clear his mind ''No it's gone, I can't remember.''

''They probably shot you full of something too'' said Illya thoughtfully ''my guess is drugs and hypnotic suggestion.''

''You can do something about hypnosis'' said Napoleon, hope momentarily fanning the embers of his rapidly depleting reserves.

''Yes you can'' said Illya ''if that's what they used, yes you can.''

''Can you do it?'' asked Napoleon.

''Napoleon...'' cautioned Illya.

''Can you?'' insisted Napoleon.

''Napoleon, it's not...'' began Illya firmly.

''Can you?'' demanded Napoleon.

''Napoleon, please...'' tried Illya.

A toxic brew of exhaustion and anguish pushed Napoleon to cross a line. ''Are you saying that you won't?'' he accused, his voice suddenly dangerously steady.

Illya floundered, looking to Demetrius. Demetrius moved immediately to defuse Napoleon ''That's more than enough my boy'' he said sternly ''you have no enemies on this island. I suggest now that you get some sleep, before you make one of the man who risked his life in saving you.''

''I don't need sleep'' said Napoleon unconvincingly, straining to cast anxious and penitent eyes in Illya's direction.

''Go to sleep Napoleon'' said Illya patiently.

''I just need Illya to be less stubborn'' said Napoleon, sufficiently reassured to allow Demetrius to settle him back in his chair and adjust his covers.

''I shall await that happy event with the same anticipation with which I await the seas turning to gold and the rain to diamonds'' said Demetrius looking up at Illya with a warm smile.

''He wins friends wherever he goes'' said Napoleon with a conciliatory huffiness, closing his eyes.

Illya and Demetrius remained with him until they were sure he was asleep and then they headed back into Demetrius' small abode for something to eat.

As Demetrius busied himself in his little kitchen Illya set the table. ''I shall miss your companionship when you go my friend'' said Demetrius.

''You think I am leaving?'' asked Illya.

''You will not be staying'' countered Demetrius with a studied innocence as he served the food.

''You want to know why I wouldn't say I would help him, don't you?'' asked Illya with an equally studied resignation.

''I am curious'' admitted Demetrius.

''I am not the person to do this'' said Illya earnestly ''I'm not even sure I could, but even if I was, it can't be me. I am bound up in the conditioning, I have no idea what they put in his mind about me and nor does he. It has to be someone who is not involved in our little games with THRUSH, someone they couldn't possibly know about and someone we can trust. How am I to find such a person?''

''May I venture, with faith, my friend?'' said Demetrius, smiling his most saintly smile.


	8. Chapter 8

Napoleon awoke some five hours later, then with the assistance of more painkillers and the literal support of Illya and Demetrius, he made his way back to his little bedroom.

Illya and the holy man easing him into the bed. Napoleon sank back on the pillows and Demetrius gently brought a hand up to his forehead. Napoleon did his best to conceal it, but his discomfort at the gesture was evident.

''It's alright my boy'' said Demetrius gently.

Illya had retreated to the doorway and Demetrius paused before leaving the room to say to him ''He's a little warm still, but nothing to concern us. I'll get him something to eat.''

''Can it be fixed?'' said Napoleon bleakly, looking down at his covers.

Illya came back into the room to be with him ''If it's what we suspect, then yes it can be fixed'' he said ''but I can't do it Napoleon. Who knows what kind of traps they've set in your mind, they know about me, who knows what I could trigger.''

Napoleon gave him a ruefully bitter smile and said ''Who don't they know about?''

''That's what I'm working on'' said Illya.

''And you think you can find someone they don't know, that we can trust and who also just happens to be an expert in hypnosis'' said Napoleon. ''Since when did Russians become so optimistic?''

''Since they had to put up with petulant Americans'' said Illya, refusing to be goaded into colluding with Napoleon's mood.

Napoleon looked up sharply ''Petulant?''

''Well what would you call it Napoleon?'' asked Illya abrasively as Demetrius came in with the food.

Napoleon took the plate and Illya placed the cup of water on the tiny bedside table. Napoleon relented ''Could I go for truculent?'' he asked, attempting the sort of smile Illya hadn't seen since he'd got his partner away from THRUSH.

Illya smiled back ''I could live with that'' he said ''if you can tell me what it means.''

''You are not the only one with an extensive vocabulary'' said Napoleon sniffily.

''And you are not the only one who is hungry'' said Illya, following Demetrius out of the room ''I'll be back later.''

Having left Napoleon to his meal Illya followed Demetrius into the little kitchen, where the sometime priest had already laid out food for them both. ''I'm starting to worry'' said Illya as he took his now customary seat at the table.

''I wish you had informed me of this earlier my friend'' said Demetrius ''I had foolishly supposed that you had been worrying since we brought your injured American up from the beach on Rosa's back, to discover now that this is not so is somewhat disconcerting.''

Illya allowed his friend a rare unguarded grin. ''I have a new worry'' he corrected himself.

''Ah, then all is explained'' said the other man playfully, and then more seriously ''what is it that troubles you?''

''Napoleon isn't himself, he hasn't been since I got him out of that place. I'm worried...'' Illya stopped mid mouthful and put his food down. ''I'm worried where his mind will take him'' he said awkwardly.

''Illya, Illya'' his companion chided ''the man is a fighter, let that comfort you. He is given much more to anger than despair.''

''He was'' said Illya, trying to forget the image of Napoleon utterly defeated in his cell ''I'm not sure how much of that is left in him. It would help if I could give him some hope of undoing what was done to him.''

''I have been thinking a little on that subject myself'' said the other man thoughtfully.

''The doctor?'' said Illya a little reticently ''I too have been considering that.''

''What? The man who never trusts strangers is willing to trust my friend?'' teased the holy man.

''For Napoleon I would'' said Illya, dropping his head so that the other man could not fathom his expression.

His priestly companion reached across the table and put a hand on his arm ''A true friend is wealth beyond counting'' he said, and then returning to his meal he added ''it was not the doctor of whom I thought, but of Rosa.''

Illya's head came up at that ''What?'' he asked.

''Rosa'' repeated Demetrius ''Rosa who came to me unbidden and who is now my servant and companion. My partner'' he ended with emphasis.

''I do not think Napoleon has ever thought of himself as my servant'' said Illya, cautiously intrigued.

''Rosa belonged to the fair'' said Demetrius ''every winter they would come to these islands to rest and prepare for the following season.''

''There are many such places'' said Illya.

''This particular year there was an epidemic, a dangerous fever travelling across the continent, but these islands have always been spared the worst of such sickness. We quarantine ourselves, shutting ourselves off from the outside world until the danger has passed'' said Demetrius.

''So the fair couldn't stay in its habitual home?'' surmised Illya.

''No, and neither were they welcome anywhere else'' said Demetrius ''but we are all children of God.''

''I know you believe that Father Demetrius'' said Illya ''but I have met those whom God would disown.''

''Then you have not truly understood God'' said the priestly man sincerely; ''I gave the fair a place to stay, here on this island. It brought a certain colour and life to my peaceful solitude, and when they left, they left Rosa as a token of their debt.''

''I see'' said Illya, not comprehending at all but expecting Demetrius to elaborate further.

But the Godly man simply asked ''Do you trust me Illya? Do you trust me enough to bring someone to these islands to help your friend? And do you trust me when I tell you that this person can be trusted not to betray you?''

Illya's eyes darkened, he didn't trust strangers and he didn't want his trust of the man whose home he now shared to be tested, lest it be found wanting. But this same man was offering the hope of restoring Napoleon to himself and for that he would dare much more than he would for his own sake. ''One person?'' he asked evenly.

''One person'' said Demetrius ''only one and this one person will not tell another living soul where they are going, or where they have been.''

Illya stared at his companion with a barely concealed steel and conceded with a deadly quietness ''One person.''

''Good'' said Demetrius, rising from the table ''finish your food. There are preparations which need my attention, I shall return when they have been attended to.''

Illya picked at his remaining food, turning over in his mind whether to tell Napoleon of Demetrius' plan. It didn't feel right keeping it from Napoleon, but if anything went wrong, if the plan failed, if the hope of help was snatched away, he wasn't sure that Napoleon had sufficient resources left to hold him together.

He was still picking at the same piece of bread when Demetrius returned with Napoleon's empty plate to clear away the table. ''Illya you have made the right decision'' said the holy man looking at the uneaten morsels.

''Do you know how many times our lives have been endangered by making the right decision?'' asked Illya ''The right decision can get you killed just as easily as the wrong decision and this time I have taken the decision for Napoleon. He has had no say in this.''

''Come my serious friend'' said Demetrius ''you are being particularly Russian tonight. Let us sit under the stars and pretend we are drinking vodka like proper Russians.''

''Napoleon?'' asked Illya.

''Has taken the painkillers I gave him and is sleeping. He has also eaten more than you tonight, is it time for me to worry about you again my friend?'' said Demetrius.

Illya looked at him in surprise ''You have never had cause to worry about me'' he said.

''No my friend'' said Demetrius leaning forward to brush Illya's hair away from the healing head wound he had received on the beach ''I never have cause to be concerned for such a careful retiring young man.''


	9. Chapter 9

All Illya knew about the help Demetrius had summoned was that he had summoned it by radio. And he didn't even really know that, having surmised it as being the only route open to his Godly friend for summoning help.

He was sitting with Napoleon in a couple of Demetrius' gravity defying chairs, playing cards and trying to keep the dark head of his partner free from dark thoughts.

The goats were bleating playfully round the island and the sun shone brightly in the sky. Little white puffs of cloud drifted aimlessly by and there was an almost cool breeze blowing in from the shimmering blue waters surrounding the island. Demetrius had left them with a cool jug of the lemonade he sometimes made and Rosa was munching half heartedly at the stubbly vegetation a few tens of yards away. Sometimes when the breeze shifted they could smell her sun baked coat mingled with the smell of the wild herbs.

''Are you going to take that off?'' asked Napoleon gingerly stretching his wounded and healing legs.

''No'' said Illya without looking up from his hand. He had Napoleon beaten, it was just a matter of time before Napoleon realised that he had him beaten. He shuffled a couple of his cards anyway just to look interested.

''What are you expecting?'' asked Napoleon leaning back in his chair and dropping his hand in the parched wisps of grass below it ''A secret THRUSH goat?''

''I'm not expecting anything, but life on this island has not been so quiet that I am prepared to take off my gun'' said Illya, irked at having the laurels of victory so carelessly snatched from him. He got up and picked up Napoleon's discarded hand, confirming his win, and then tidied the pack of cards into a neat pile which he left on the arm of his own tumbledown chair, suspecting that Napoleon would forget their presence and knock them off his.

''Pass me the lemonade'' said Napoleon. Illya dutifully picked up the jug and filled Napoleon's cup, replacing the delicately crocheted cover and placing the jug back in the hollow where they were storing it, in the hopes of keeping it cool. ''I would never have seen myself as a lemonade man'' said Napoleon lazily, ''but I always believe in trying what the locals drink. I think I could be persuaded on a day like this.''

Illya was about to vent some of his peevishness when he noticed Rosa had stopped eating and had raised her head, she was focussing in the direction of the little rough track up from the beach. Illya raised his hand to his gun instinctively, listening for the sound of footsteps.

He could sense Napoleon behind him tensing automatically in answer to the familiar gesture. He moved in the direction of the path, easing his gun from its holster and holding it ready to engage with whatever had spooked Rosa.

He could hear footsteps now, he planted himself just before a bend in the track. Feet either side of the path, gun steadied in front of him. There couldn't be more than two or three of them, Napoleon was unarmed and couldn't walk unaided, let alone run. If he shot as soon as he saw them there was a good chance he would get one, possibly two of them. If there were two that would be enough, if there were more he'd have to be very lucky.

His fingers were poised over the trigger ready for the first flicker of a shadow, the first shower of grit and stone kicked up by approaching feet, he had to be first, Napoleon's life depended on it.

''Illya, don't shoot, don't shoot'' shouted Napoleon, just as the approaching figures reached him. He hesitated for a split second, just enough time for his sharp reflexes to realise he was pointing his gun at Demetrius and a young woman.

Demetrius and his young charge stood transfixed, fixated on the muzzle of his gun. Illya lowered and holstered his weapon ''I couldn't be sure who it was'' he half mumbled, lowering his head as he had his weapon, shaken himself at how close he had come.

It took a minute or two for Demetrius to recover himself and realise that Illya was probably more traumatised than either himself or his young guest. The quiet young Russian was walking a few steps ahead of them, heading towards Napoleon. Illya had no jacket on, the brilliant white of his shirt reflected and dazzled as did the whitewash of Demetrius' home or the blossom white peaks of the wind blown waves, it took a perceptive eye to see that his hands were shaking.

Demetrius hurried forward a few paces to be with him ''I'm sorry my young friend'' he said catching his arm. He had caught Illya with such a gentle force he hadn't expected the Russian to break stride, but Illya was so off balance he was pulled around by it and stood blinking uncertainly before him.

''I never think about them dying; or us dying'' he said, squinting in the sunlight at the young woman coming towards them ''but I think about someone like you, or someone like her dying. I think about that'' he said. Then he turned back and followed the path up to meet Napoleon.

Napoleon barely registered he was there. His attention had been caught minutes before by the sway of a full red skirt, barely glimpsed on the pathway from the vantage of his wreck of a chair. It was this that had caused him to shout to Illya. THRUSH rarely assaulted any position dressed to such swaying perfection.

He could now see that the full red skirt was attached to a rather primly tailored top, and was in fact a dress. Her dark hair falling against it in big soft waves. He smiled a smile just for her and waited to be introduced.

''Illya'' said Demetrius ''this is Pia, of whom we spoke.''

This news did register his partner's presence with Napoleon. When had Illya had time to find this highly decorative item? ''Illya?'' he questioned.

''I believe this young lady is able to help you'' said Illya, his eyes seeking assurance and confirmation from Demetrius.

''Help me?'' said Napoleon in bewilderment. A number of delightful ideas had been jostling in his mind, but none of them had sounded this medicinal.

''This young lady is descended from a distinguished family of mesmerists'' said Demetrius ''she is considered very gifted and considers herself to be in debt to me, as a consequence she has graciously agreed to help you.''

Napoleon began to comprehend what they were suggesting. ''No, absolutely not'' he said ''I'm sure this young lady is very talented, but no. Absolutely not.''

''Napoleon, be reasonable, you said yourself finding someone to do this was nearly impossible, we have found someone, she can fix this'' Illya all but pleaded.

''No'' said Napoleon ''I can't, I won't. It'll have to be someone else.''

Illya looked from Pia to Demetrius and back again. ''The subject must be willing'' said the young woman Illya had so very nearly killed.

Illya nodded, dangerously calm ''Napoleon'' he said ''why don't you tell the young lady about my hands, what it is about my hands that triggers your blackouts.''

Napoleon was starting to breathe rapidly, clutching the sides of his ramshackle chair ''Illya, don't'' he rasped tightly.

''Tell her about the well, or the blanket, or when I tried to feel your temperature'' continued Illya with the same dead calm ''do you remember how you felt? Can you tell her?''

Napoleon's eyes shuttered to a close and he fell back against his chair, his breath catching in uneven gasps, sheened with perspiration, his hands clamped to the rests so tightly that the knuckles were bleached white. His whole body was rigid with terror.

Pia was looking with horror at the man who had so very nearly shot her and was now torturing the friend Demetrius had told her he had risked his life to save.

''He will be willing now'' said Illya, dropping to one knee and casting a protective arm over his partner. Lifting unreadable eyes to Demetrius he said ''I will need your help to get him out of this.''

''I know my boy'' said Demetrius moving to lean over Napoleon. ''Napoleon, do you hear me?'' he called ''Open your eyes, you need to wake up now. Do you hear me Napoleon? Wake up. Open your eyes.''

Napoleon's eyes struggled open, blank and uncomprehending. Illya murmured to him before he was fully aware ''I'm sorry Napoleon, I had no other way.''


	10. Chapter 10

Illya sat in Demetrius' small kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee. Pia was with Napoleon, he could hear the rise and fall of her voice as she worked with him.

The American was lying on the bed in his own little room. Demetrius had placed one of the kitchen chairs beside it for Pia. They had been together like this for hours. Sometimes there was a break and Demetrius would take in coffee or food. Illya had remained in the kitchen, uncertain of his reception by either party.

Demetrius returned from collecting the cups and plates accumulating in Napoleon's room and deposited them in the sink. Then he sat himself down opposite Illya and spent some minutes studying the Russian before saying ''It seems they are making progress, Pia says that we may be hopeful for your friend.''

''I'm not sure he's going to forgive me for what I did'' said Illya, absorbed in his own thoughts.

''You did what was necessary my friend, you could not allow his vanity to stand in the way of his cure'' said Demetrius kindly.

''It's not vanity'' said Illya studying the bottom of his coffee cup as if the secrets of the world resided there ''it's pride. He didn't want a young girl seeing him vulnerable and broken. But she had to see it, she had to understand. I had no other way, if I had left him with anything to lose he wouldn't be in there now,'' he finished, looking up as if seeking absolution.

Demetrius knew better than to offer it. ''Pride and vanity'' he asked ''are they so very different?''

''They are with him'' said Illya. ''He is proud because he has a right to be, and I took that from him. In the eyes of that girl, I took that from him.''

''Pia is neither so easily impressed nor so easily fooled, my friend'' said Demetrius ''but she is saddened and she is angry.''

''Angry?'' questioned Illya.

''She is horrified by the use of her art for such evil ends. Her people have been with the travelling fairs for generations, using their skills to entertain but there is also a power to heal. She is angry at those who have perverted the power to heal in order to do harm.''

''There will be an accounting for that I assure you'' said Illya darkly.

''You move in a world which knows so much of violence'' replied Demetrius with sorrow ''but, knowing what it is that you fight, I find myself unable to condemn it. Pia may be ignorant of the name of this evil, but she has seen what it has done to your friend and she is filled with compassion.''

Illya gave a wry smile ''Napoleon is not above playing on the sympathies of a pretty girl'' he admitted ''but pity? Napoleon would rather I had left him to THRUSH.''

''Compassion is not pity my young friend'' said Demetrius ''and Pia would not be able to work with your friend as she does now, if he did not already understand this.''

Illya looked doubtful ''I will wait to hear it from Napoleon'' he said.

''Wait to hear what from Napoleon?'' enquired Napoleon, standing in the kitchen doorway.

He was being shored up on one side by the door frame and on the other by Pia. Illya was on his feet instantaneously to support him. He slipped his arm under the American's, shouldering some of his weight, and helped him across the short distance to the kitchen table.

Napoleon eased himself carefully into one of the chairs. It had clearly been an effort to travel the few yards from his small bedroom, and it had drained him of some of his colour, but he was also looking very pleased with himself.

Pia seemed as pleased as he was. ''You did it'' she beamed in triumph, sitting down beside him and taking his hand in her own.

''And for my next trick'' said Napoleon playfully, waving Illya's gun in the air with his free hand.

Illya's hand went instantly to his now empty holster. ''Give me that'' he ordered, lunging forward in an attempt to grab back the gun. Napoleon snatched it away and dangled it above his own dark head. ''Napoleon, what are you playing at?'' protested Illya, trying again. But Napoleon's sleight of hand had the gun away from him in an instant. Illya retreated to regroup, radiating a curious mix of hostility and puzzlement.

Then he caught Pia's warm dark eyes laughing at him in silent merriment. He looked from her to Napoleon, who seemed to be enjoying the same joke. Comprehension dawning, he walked up to Napoleon with a wry deliberation and grabbed his wrist, shaking the gun from the American's unprotesting grasp. ''You could have just said that it worked'' he muttered, re-holstering the weapon.

''Where would be the fun in that?'' asked Napoleon, looking to Pia and raising the hand he still held to his lips ''thank you'' he said graciously.

She gifted him with a shy smile and replied ''I was glad to be able to help.''

''It would seem that the time has come for Pia to return to her people'' observed Demetrius.

Pia hadn't taken her eyes from Napoleon's. ''Goodbye Mr Solo'' she said sincerely, leaning forward to place the chastest of kisses on his cheek. Illya was uncertain that his partner hadn't blushed. ''I will not forget you.''

Then she stood and allowed Demetrius to guide her out of the kitchen and towards the entrance of his unassuming home. The erstwhile priest following her out into the fading warmth of the early evening sun in order to escort her back to wherever he had been able to conjure her from.

''I suppose that goes for us too'' said Illya staring after them ''it's about time for us to return to our people.''

''I was beginning to think you wanted to settle down with the goats'' said Napoleon mischievously ''I think they like you.''

''I would be more than happy if I never saw another goat'' responded Illya tersely.

''Are you sure?'' teased Napoleon ''Because you do seem to have developed quite an affinity...''

''Upon reflection'' retorted Illya ''it's a long flight to New York; I'm not sure a goat wouldn't be better company.''

''I am pained by your lack of appreciation for the finer points of my conversational accomplishments'' replied Napoleon loftily.

Illya chose to ignore this, focussing on more pragmatic concerns ''I will make contact and arrange for our flights'' he said.

''How will you explain our absence?'' queried Napoleon.

''I don't need to explain it'' said Illya ''I have already received authorisation for it.''

''You told them I was...I was...unfit?'' Napoleon faltered, immediately wary.

''I told them you were too injured to move and in good hands'' said Illya patiently ''I saw no reason to burden anyone with a truth beyond that.''

Subdued, Napoleon reached an idle hand across the table to take the handle of Illya's discarded coffee cup. He twisted it back and forth against its saucer, seemingly totally absorbed, following the motion of his partner's cup for uncounted minutes, while Illya stood in silence watching him. Then without looking up he said, ''I was in good hands, the best hands.''

Illya gave no response at first, dropping his head to look at his shoes, then he mumbled ''I'm your partner, what else was I supposed to do?''

''You didn't have to bring me here'' said Napoleon ''you could have taken me back.''

''Would you have wanted that?'' asked Illya, suddenly uncertain.

''No'' said Napoleon, still playing with the cup ''but you could have taken me back.''

Illya looked up, considering his position for a moment before replying ''I just did what was necessary.''

''Thank you'' said Napoleon unexpectedly.

Illya shifted a little uncomfortably and then said almost impishly ''It was either that or explain to Mr Waverly that I was trading you in for a donkey.''

Napoleon cocked his head to one side and enquired quizzically ''For a what?''

''Rosa'' said Illya ''she made a very useful job of providing back up and if I ever have cause to doubt the unique and inexplicable value of our partnership, I may yet be tempted.''

Napoleon broke into a broad grin, looking every inch the man Illya had come to know, ''Well there'll be plenty of time for you to explain that little episode'' he said ''like you say, it's a long flight back to New York and I can't move without help. For once you will have my full and undivided attention.''

And for once, Illya found himself entirely without an answer.

END


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